In Your Silence

by Grace Lowrie

  Now I was venturing further into the more rural parts of the grounds and clearing out the undergrowth in the cooler shade of the trees.

  But I had company. It seemed the mysterious lady of the house was no longer content with watching me from the house and had taken to hiding behind bushes. It would be amusing if I wasn’t so concerned about her getting injured. Olly had been right; she was young. From a distance I’d thought she might be a child – her petite size, coupled with the girly dresses she wore, gave that impression, not to mention the ongoing game of hide and seek. But she was not a child.

  Three days ago, on my way back to the van to fetch a bigger pair of loppers, I’d stumbled across her. She was leaning against the trunk of an oak tree, her head tipped back, her eyes closed against the sun, and a serene expression of contentment on her face. I’d only had time to look from her face down to her hand, unconsciously searching for a wedding ring, before she saw me and darted away. But in that brief glance I’d clocked the writing scrawled down her arm and across her left hand in black ball-point pen, the colourful plastic wristwatch she wore, and the blue varnish on her bitten-down fingernails. There was no ring.

  I hadn’t had a chance to decipher any of the words on her skin, but perhaps she suffered from absent-mindedness. Despite her peculiar behaviour I’d decided she was somewhere in her early twenties – too young for me, but a woman nevertheless.

  As I laboured I listened to the birds singing in the trees. Now and again I paused to toss a worm to the robin who was also keeping an eye on me, albeit brazenly and with a chirpy song. I gathered the assorted weeds and brambles in a wheelbarrow which I periodically emptied onto the compost heap, while the woodier prunings I piled in a clearing out of view of the house; it would make for a terrific bonfire once autumn arrived.

  It was satisfying work – tiring and repetitive, but no less enjoyable for all that – and it left my mind free to wander aimlessly across the countryside and beyond. I thought about the new woman in James’s life (I’d never seen him so enamoured) and I pondered Maire’s news. At the pub on Tuesday night she’d announced that she was pregnant. In six months’ time Lester would become a dad, and I would become an uncle for the first time. I was still trying to get my head around the idea. I suppose I’d always assumed that Cally and I would become parents one day – though the fact that neither of us had ever mentioned the possibility, in six years together as a couple, perhaps indicated otherwise.

  She’d finally called me a few days ago on her birthday to let me know she was OK. She still hadn’t provided an adequate explanation for her sudden departure but, to my surprise, it no longer bothered me. Yes, I missed having someone to go home to, someone to cook and care for, but other than that I didn’t miss Cally as intensely as I’d expected to. It was enough to know that she was happy and safe wherever she was – maybe we were never meant to last.

  But I would still like the opportunity to be a dad one day. Perhaps James was right when he said I needed to get out and start meeting women again...? It was OK for him; he’d found someone special. The mere thought of dating filled me with dread. If I couldn’t make a relationship work with someone as patient and understanding as Cally, what chance did I have with any woman? What girl in her right mind would look twice at an oaf like me?

  Chapter Eight

  A sinister nightmare woke me with a start. It was the same one I always had; the same shadowy figures and faces; the same sense of searching for something I could never find; the same intense sense of hopeless desolation. While I waited for the usual panic to subside and my heart-rate to return to normal, I lay in bed staring at processions of black poodles marching around the pink walls.

  The nursery had always been my bedroom. Gregory occupied the master, Cornelia haunted the adjoining room, and the spare bedrooms were cold, cluttered and draughty. This room benefited from being situated above the kitchen, so it was cosy warm. It also had an easterly aspect and large windows; which afforded a clear view over the walled garden and the woodland beyond, and allowed the sun to wake me each morning. But it hadn’t been re-decorated since the fifties – it had been stuck in a time warp so long that it was almost fashionable again – and the wallpaper was undeniably childish.

  Now that my bad dreams had retreated back into my subconscious, I pushed my numerous and varied stuffed toys aside and reached for the largest – a brown bear with a pink bow and a knowing smirk whom I’d named Beauty. Gregory had brought her back from one of his many trips abroad, Germany I think. He’d gradually gifted me my entire collection over the years; I had stuffed teddies from nearly every corner of the world, though half of them where actually made in China or Taiwan. They covered my wardrobe, chest of drawers, dressing table, shelves, and swamped my four-poster bed. But Beauty harboured a secret.

  Turning her over I unzipped the central seam of her back, opened the concealed compartment within, and withdrew my secret hoard. A pink lipstick; a pair of sixties-style sunglasses; three plastic disposable lighters in fluorescent colours; a tortoiseshell comb; a pen featuring a naked lady down the side; an Eiffel Tower keyring; half a smoked joint and two foil-wrapped Durex. There were three condoms originally, but when sheer curiosity got the better of me I’d opened one; unravelled and inspected the limp, slimy, balloon-like contents, and then, disappointed, thrown it away.

  But these assorted treasures were not things I’d bought or been given. Each and every item had been carefully pilfered from the handbag or coat pocket of people who’d visited the house over the years. I only ever stole one item from each person, and even then I tried to only take things they wouldn’t miss, but I felt they were clues to lives I would never truly understand.

  The maths and English teacher, Miss Prichard, had half a dozen different lipsticks rolling around in the bottom of her purse, ranging from Candy Creme through to Raspberry Shimmer. My chosen hostage was called Rosewood, and the most muted of the lot, though far richer than my natural colour. It was thick and greasy on my lips as I pouted at myself in the mirror like a dead-eyed woman from a magazine. How many people had she kissed with this particular shade?

  The joint I’d pinched from Finnegan’s secret stash. I’d smoked half of it simply to find out what all the fuss was about. It made my throat tickle, my head swim and my eyes water, but otherwise it had little effect. I probably wasn’t cut out to be a pothead – my life simply wasn’t stressful or exciting enough to require narcotic relief. What I was saving the other half for was anyone’s guess – I had no intention of smoking it.

  To my collection I added my latest and most prized acquisition: a men’s wristwatch. I was breaking my own rules because Hunt was bound to miss it – but he shouldn’t have left it just lying there by the sink in the stables; I couldn’t resist taking it for myself. The dial was shiny and complicated with several other smaller dials on the face; telling the date as well as the time. But it was the sturdy brown strap which really appealed; it was soft and malleable and there was a clear impression in the leather to show where he always fastened it. Slipping it onto my arm like a heavy bracelet, I marvelled at the sheer magnitude of his burly wrist compared to my slender one. What must it be like to be a man that size? To carry all that physical strength, power and influence around , inside your body?

  The front gates rang out with a clang as they closed and I shoved my booty safely back inside Beauty, leapt off the bed and raced along the corridor to the west side of the house in my nightdress. Gregory had given Mr Hunt his own key fob to activate the gates so that he could come and go as he pleased. As the mornings grew lighter he seemed to arrive earlier each day. I reached the window in time to see him park his van, emerge, yawn widely, scratch his jaw and stretch his enormous arms above his head. I hoped he might be working close to the house today, where I could keep an eye on him without resorting to hiding in the bushes, but when he returned from the stables with a mug of something steaming hot and a selection of tools, he strode off into the long grass and disappeared
beneath the trees.

  My hands and feet were getting stiff with cold in the draughty window, so I threw on Cornelia’s fluffy pink robe and a matching pair of slippers and left the bath running with hot water while I made toast with marmalade in the kitchen. Before eating my breakfast, I returned to the now-full bath and settled my body beneath the bubbles; scattering the cloud-like suds with crumbs and licking my sticky fingers with satisfaction.

  At nine o’clock Mrs Daly arrived as usual; banging doors, clattering crockery and then powering up the vacuum cleaner and shoving it about. All Mrs Daly’s movements were angry-sounding; as if she was constantly bitter and resentful of her life. Or maybe mine. During her first week here I’d made the mistake of asking for a cup of tea – I didn’t drink it because it was obvious by the scum on the surface that she’d spat in it, and I never asked her for anything again. Whatever her problem, she made a point of pretending I didn’t exist and I afforded her the same courtesy in return.

  But I was still finding the landscaper difficult to ignore. I still didn’t trust him and wanted to know what he was up to. Admittedly the work he’d done so far was a great improvement – the terrace, the formal beds and the lawns were starting to resemble the garden from my memory. But even so, with Gregory away I had a responsibility to keep him under surveillance. And it was my home; I shouldn’t have to hide. I was pretty sure Mr Hunt knew I was watching him anyway. So today I would be bold about it; I would take a book and sit in the grounds to read it – that was a perfectly normal thing to do. I could catch up on my work later.

  Having spent far too long prevaricating over which dress to wear and which book to take with me, I finally set off along a narrow track that had been trampled through the long grass on the south side of the house. The hot sun had long since burned away the morning dew, and the grass, which reached up to tickle my elbows in places, was lush and beginning to swell with seed. I’d worn a big hat to protect my face from the sun, and I was absentmindedly watching my feet as I picked my way through the grounds, so it was a shock when I stumbled across the landscaper, unnaturally large and powerful, and a mere few feet away.

  He was digging out roots where a dense thicket of brambles had invaded a crumbly section of path, but thankfully he had his back to me and hadn’t seen me yet. I stood, holding my breath, mid-step, my blood pounding in my ears as I stared at him. Using his bodyweight he stamped a spade into the stony earth with a booted foot, levered tearing roots to the surface and then bent to snatch them out of the ground with his rough, bare hands, repeating the process over and over again. He wore trousers covered in lots of pockets, a holster at his waist carrying a sharp implement, and a baseball cap with a peak to shade his eyes. But it was the nakedness of his expansive back which really captured my attention – a vast wall of shifting muscle, browned by the sun and glistening with sweat. I was close enough that I could smell him – the same warm, soapy scent but sharper, tangy with sweat, so that I could almost taste it.

  He paused in his work, leaving the spade embedded upright in the ground and wiping his forehead on his right bicep as he turned. I witnessed the flash of surprise on his face before I averted my gaze, heat rushing to my cheeks. I hadn’t meant to get so close. Why hadn’t I kept a better eye out for him? Now I couldn’t double back without looking foolish.

  Disregarding him completely, I boldly waded into the long grass, awkwardly parting it with my hands and feet until I came to the large old stump of an elm tree. It had a rotten hole in the middle, which served as a birdbath when it rained, but the outside of the stump was solid enough to provide me with a seat. Perching on the edge I opened my book and made a show of scanning the lines with my eyes, all the time monitoring him in my peripheral vision. After a moment he took a long swig of water from a large plastic bottle, took up his spade and returned to his labouring without a word.

  As the butterflies in my stomach began to settle, I sneaked furtive glances at him through the gap between the brim of my hat and the top of my book; noting the flash of paler skin beneath his arms, and above the waistband of his trousers as he crouched, and the way the fabric tightened around his meaty bum and thighs as he did so. He was hairier than any man I’d ever seen in the flesh; it sprouted from his armpits, and his nipples nestled in a curly fuzz across his chest. The thought of how his body might feel to touch made me jittery.

  He made no attempt to talk to me, for which I was grateful, and only acknowledged my presence by smiling at me occasionally. For a beast of a man he had an unexpectedly attractive smile; his heavily furrowed brow lifting, his eyes softening and his mouth curving up lopsidedly into one cheek. I didn’t return the gesture; I automatically returned my eyes to my book and turned a page without having read a word. But I began to consider smiling at him; testing the idea in my mind and fretting over the possible implications.

  Because, weirdly enough, I was enjoying myself – sitting there in the sunshine, listening to the birds singing while a man dug up brambles. I was proud of myself for holding my ground; not letting a stranger intimidate me and push me out of my own territory. And the silence between him and me was not as strained or awkward as it could have been; for once it was oddly comfortable, and soon I began to relax; my breathing calming and my body slouching. I even read a few pages of the book in my hand – it was my favourite, after all.

  At midday Mr Hunt set aside his spade, dusted his hands on the back of his trousers and retrieved an aluminium foil-covered package from the dense shade beneath a rhododendron bush. I tensed with anticipation as he carefully unwrapped it and then took two slow strides in my direction. He blocked out the sun as he loomed over me, but once I was sure he was stopping there and not coming any nearer, I slipped off the stump and carefully peered at what lay within his outstretched hand.

  My bottom had gone numb and now tingled with pins and needles as I eyed the stack of neatly-cut, triangular sandwiches. Glancing up at him I found him staring back at me from beneath his cap, unnervingly close and potentially as unpredictable as a savage animal. But there was no denying I was peckish. Plucking a sandwich from the stash in his hand, I rapidly backed away, keeping my eyes on him.

  Without a word he hunkered down on the ground in the shade of an oak tree and collapsed against the gnarled and pitted trunk. Opening his mouth wide he took great crescent-shaped bites of food, his head falling back, his cheeks bulging as he chewed, and his eyes closing on a silent sigh. The way he ate made my mouth dry and my insides ache in a disconcerting way. I didn’t know what to do with myself. The great brute looked for all the world as if he belonged there; as if he owned the place, and I glared at him in consternation. But he didn’t open his eyes and I was too unsettled to hang about.

  Abruptly turning I stomped back along the path, up to the house and through the back door, bypassing Mrs Daly on the landing, and not stopping until I’d reached the safety of the nursery. Once there I sat down, breathing hard, sweat tickling my hairline. Why did he annoy me so much? Why did I let him get to me? I wanted to open a window and let air in, but the leaded panes had always been sealed shut; presumably to prevent small children from accidentally plunging to their deaths.

  Dropping my book I stared at the sandwich still clasped in my other hand – I could see cheese and lettuce poking out of one side. Once the ringing in my ears had subsided, I tentatively lifted it to my mouth and took a bite. It was warm and slightly soggy, but tasted delicious and I couldn’t stop smiling as I ate.

  Chapter Nine

  It was strange the way she watched and followed me about, as if gardening was a spectator sport, but I’d grown accustomed to the prickling sensation at the back of my neck alerting me to her presence. At first it had crossed my mind that she might be disadvantaged in some way; perhaps a little slow or mentally deficient, but her pale grey eyes were bright with intelligence and her movements perfectly controlled. Maybe she was autistic? Arnold Chambers at the corner shop had Aspergers – he was a nice chap with a superb memory and a g
ift for mental arithmetic, but he found it difficult talking to customers. Either way, this girl had been keeping me company for weeks now and had still not said a word – I didn’t know her name, her age, or anything else about her.

  She also had an unconventional way of dressing. I was aware that past styles had come back into fashion – had become ‘retro’ or ‘vintage’ – but I got the impression that this girl’s dress-sense slightly missed the mark. Her dresses where loose and floaty and trimmed with lace, ending midway down her calves, and her tiny leather shoes – low-heeled and embellished with buckles – were entirely unsuitable for roaming about in the undergrowth. Sometimes she wore a shawl around her shoulders or a big floppy hat with a scarf tied around it, and she always carried a book – an ancient-looking, leather-bound copy of Daphne du Maurier’s ‘Rebecca’. Sometimes she looked like she was from another time. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but even if I did, the trodden grass and small footprints she left behind in the earth attested to her physical existence.

  Today was a picture-perfect summer day; the sun a searing blow torch in a cerulean blue sky, scattered with puffs of white cloud which drifted steadily like steam from a cartoon train. The gentle breeze stirred the leaves in the trees, tickled the long grass and caressed my clammy skin, tempering the late afternoon heat. The lilac bushes I was currently attacking had sprouted suckers and advanced across the open grassland like an invading army, establishing into a stubborn thicket of unwieldy, unyielding, shoots and roots. It was a while since we’d had any substantial rain, and the ground on this section of slope was like rock – I’d resorted to attacking it with great swinging blows of a mattock.

  Meanwhile my watcher was lying peacefully nearby like the Lady of Shallot, marooned in the sea of long grass, almost hidden from sight. But as I paused to catch my breath and glanced over I spotted one pink knee where the hem of her dress had ridden up. Had she fallen asleep? Was she wearing sun screen? Picking up my spade I dug away at the earth I’d loosened, but that patch of rosy skin played on my mind – I didn’t want her to get burned.